


Compartmentalizations

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Joanlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes between Joan and Sherlock.</p><p>Posted on tumblr originally. There may or may not be more. And as always, thank you so much for reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Yes, I know it was a nasty fall but you checked out fine. Nothing’s broken.” Joan rolled her eyes and stared out the window into the darkness. They had been waiting for the all-clear in the backseat of this squad car for what seemed like hours. She was tired of everything and everyone at this point.

He took off his watch and flexed his hand. “My wrist still throbs. It may not be broken but I believe I have sprained it and have possibly torn ligaments.” Sherlock sniffed his displeasure at her cavalier attitude and stared out his own window.

This wasn’t like him. She had dug a bullet out of his back with less complaining. Joan twisted towards him and watched his silhouette. He looked pained.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

He talked to the window rather than look at her. “I’m just weary, Watson, as I’m sure you are as well. It seems we are forever tumbling with nary a pause …” Sherlock flicked his hand for emphasis and winced.

Joan grabbed his hand and pulled up at his sleeve, examining his wrist. “Show me where it hurts.” 

“There.” Sherlock sullenly pointed to the spot and waited for her appraisal.

She rubbed a thumb over the childhood scar, obscured by the self-inscribed ink; nothing was physically wrong with his wrist. He was behaving like a toddler in need of attention. Joan cut her eyes to him, “Shall I kiss it and make it better?”

Sherlock tried to pull his hand out of her grasp, “Oh nice, now you are just mocking me! Your bedside manner is quite …” His indignant speech was cut short by the touch of her lips on his bared wrist. He stopped squirming.

The sensation of her warm breath and soft lips against his skin shocked Joan as much as it did Sherlock.

Joan rubbed the spot she kissed and lifted her eyes to his. “Better?” His face had lost it’s angered pout and looked more confused than pained. She softened at his wide-eyed befuddlement. "Where else does it hurt?“ Her tone was warm and soothing, no longer edged with sarcasm.

Sherlock sat still, focused on her lips and then her eyes, attempting to understand what just occurred. His body took over for his brain and his index finger rose and pointed to his jaw.

Joan leaned in and up, slowly lest the spell be broken, and placed a kiss on his stubbled jaw. He bowed his head towards hers, "Watson …”

Loud voices and the sudden opening of the squad car’s front door split them apart. The rookie cop called in to them, “Okay, crime scene is secure. Detective Bell says you can come on out.”

Joan and Sherlock didn’t dare look at each other until they were out of the vehicle. The pair then set their sights onto the crime scene and got on with their work.


	2. Chapter 2

Four in the morning....

The brownstone’s front door groaned open, grudgingly letting in its two tenants. Joan and Sherlock were spent. The crime scene had been unsettling to say the least. Their victim was a hoarder of everything and anything, from pizza boxes to mice skeletons to a few decades-worth of issues of the New York Times. Sifting through the accumulated waste of eons, searching for what, if anything, the murderer might have left behind, taxed both partners physically and mentally to the point of exhaustion.

Joan headed straight for the stairs. “I’m taking a shower and going to bed.”  
Her hand clasped the railing and she pulled herself up the stairs.

“Hmm…” came the answer from the library; Sherlock’s sights were aimed on the sofa. “Remember we have a briefing at the precinct at 10:00 a.m.” He called out, his words trailed off and were followed by two thuds as his shoes hit the floor.

Joan moaned her displeasure and continued forcing her legs to keep moving.

***  
Eight in the morning....

Someone was touching her. She was somewhere between asleep and awake but she felt it: the brush of something across her chin … slow, gentle, not unpleasant. A warmth hovered over her, a sense of … of something familiar… something she couldn’t place in her half-awake state. Her body attempted to convince her it was all a dream hoping it could perhaps get a few more minutes of sleep.

Joan sensed a shift towards darkness and felt what seemed to be warm breath and then a feather-soft kiss on her forehead, close to her hairline. She stirred, struggling to raise herself out of the dream that felt all too real. It took time and effort before her body obeyed. Her hand moved and came up to her head in search of whatever it was that had brought her out of sleep. Nothing there. Joan’s eyes opened and tried to focus. She blinked away the haze, fixing her gaze on the object not two feet from her face.

Clyde. Clyde sat on her pillow in one of his most elaborate cozies: the Monarch butterfly. She couldn’t help but smile at the tortoise. She moved to get up. Was Clyde responsible for the errant touches, the flutter of warm breath and kiss on her brow? Tortoises, cute as they maybe, do not have lips she reminded herself. Perhaps it was all a dream … Joan thought for a moment or two … Reaching for her cardigan, she commenced forming a line of inquiry with which to approach her second suspect.

****  
Sherlock heard her come into the kitchen. "Ah, Watson, good, you’re up.“ He set aside the cup he was washing and dried his hands. "I’ll make some eggs for you, hmm?”

“Thank you.” Joan padded up next to him, Clyde in hand. “He looks especially cheerful this morning, doesn’t he?”

Sherlock nodded and moved to pulled eggs and milk from the refrigerator. “Sufficiently rested, I take it? We have yet another full day ahead.” He kept his head down and busied himself with the breakfast preparations.

“I could have used another hour or two of sleep but Clyde found a new way to wake me up.” She watched Sherlock’s posture stiffen.

His eyes darted quickly from the eggs to her and back again. “Oh?” was his only response.

“I could have sworn he touched me.” Joan cut her eyes to him to evaluate his reaction. He stood firm, no reaction. She quickly continued, speaking to Clyde rather than looking at him, “It was the oddest thing, I was half asleep but I felt a touch on my face and then I think on my forehead it felt like a … a…. ” Joan looked at him directly, her voice softened, “ … a kiss.”

He stopped and turned to look at her, unsure how to react. Was she teasing him? Was she upset? It was careless of him. He regretted it immediately … He studied her face …

“That was rather forward of Clyde, was it not? Would you like me to speak to him about this? I think a reprimand might be in order.” His delivery was straight and dead pan.

Joan set her mouth in a straight line to avoid a smile escaping. “No, no, don’t. I didn’t say I minded.” She looked Clyde in the eye. “It was a rather pleasant way to wake up actually.”

Sherlock’s body relaxed and he turned back to the stove. “Still, this type of behavior should be nipped in the bud before it gets out of hand.” He plated her food and walked it to the table. “If not, who knows what he’ll do next?”

“I trust Clyde completely.” Joan sat at the table, setting the tortoise next to her.

Sherlock brought a small clump of greens over and rewarded Clyde with them. “Alright, but don’t complain to me when you start receiving love sick reptilian poetry and chocolate covered mealworms.” Their eyes met and neither could resist a smile at the thought. Sherlock turned quickly back to the counter and poured her a cup of coffee.

He sat the cup next to her and she happily looked up at him. His eyes shone at her reaction and he quickly stopped himself before he showed himself to be the besotted fool that he was. Throwing his shoulders back, standing a little straighter, he picked up a confused Clyde. “Right. You need to get a move on. Finish your breakfast. This young man and I are going upstairs to have a conversation about boundaries.”

Sherlock briskly turned on his heel and left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Head bent down, reviewing stacks of documents found in the victim’s home, Sherlock sat in the precinct’s meeting room. Joan walked in and sat next to him.

“Open your mouth.”

Sherlock turned his head towards Watson and did as he was told. She pushed in a piece of cream cheese covered bagel. Their eyes met by mistake in the process producing a brief awkward moment. Joan turned back to the table licking the remnants of cream cheese from her fingers. He chewed hungrily and swallowed while continuing to skim through the documents. They’d been working for hours without a break.

“You need to stop and eat. Nutrition is important in recovery. Keeps the chemical levels balanced.” She took another bite of the bagel.

“Yes, my dear ex-sober companion,” he stressed the “ex” for proper effect, turned towards her and opened his mouth for more.

Joan narrowed her eyes at him in mock displeasure but put her bagel in front of him nonetheless. Sherlock took a huge bite.

“Hey, not all of it.” She pulled what was left of her offering away and popped it in her mouth. The joyful glint in his eye as they chomped away made her stupidly happy and she wasn’t sure why.

She glanced up to catch Gregson watching them as he walked by.

A half smile crossed his face and he kept on walking, thinking he needed to call Cheryl.


	4. Chapter 4

Another long day.

“This ….” Joan yanked at her boot, “ ….was not the day to break these in.” She struggled and pulled, “Ugh ….” The black high heeled boot finally gave in and released its grip on her foot. She sighed and went to work on getting the next one off. Dropping the offender to the floor, she sat back on the sofa wiggling her toes, trying get the blood flowing again.

Sherlock watched all this from the other end of the sofa; the judgmental scowl warned her it was coming. “Need I say it again?” He watched her flex her toes. “Your footwear is ridiculously inappropriate for the work we do.” Joan’s eye roll did not stop his diatribe. “I understand you feel the need to compensate for your diminutive size but you are placing your life at risk with every step in those monstrosities. You don’t even …”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” The words came out more kindly sounding than she would have liked. Discussions, loud discussions, about her choice of footwear, started the first week they met and had never really stopped. She’d argued her points on many an occasion but tonight she just wasn’t in the mood for it. She was tired and her feet really hurt.

Sherlock took a sharp breath in and curbed his tongue. Further argument would not fix the problem. He stared straight ahead for a moment or two.

“Give me your feet.” The statement was clipped and commanding, meant to steer clear of any potential overlay of emotion.

“What?” She couldn’t have heard correctly.

“Give me your feet.” He repeated with more emphasis. She cautiously extended her feet towards his side of the sofa. He placed them so the heels rested on his thigh. He grabbed hold of her feet with both his hands and examined. “Look at these poor things, red and pinched …”

“If your just going to lecture …” Joan tried to pull her feet away but he had a firm hold on them.

“Stay still.” He picked up her right foot. “You were a doctor, Watson. Surely you know the effects walking in heels has on the human body.” He rubbed lightly at first and then his fingers more firmly pushed into her instep. Sherlock’s fingers pressed into sore muscles with a balanced strength that produced exquisite pleasure with a hint of pain.

Joan’s eyes closed involuntarily, her body relaxed and her head lay back on the armrest of the sofa. His thumbs pushed a little deeper into her sole. She gasped and something akin to an orgasmic moan escaped her lips. Normally, she would have been embarrassed by her lack of control, asked him to stop, moved away…. But this felt so …. very …. good.

Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to not dwell on the sound she had just produced. He mustered his sternest voice, “This is not to be interpreted as a reward for bad behavior, Watson.”

“Mm hmm …” she bit her lower lip and hoped he would continue.

He made the mistake of turning his attention from her feet towards her. The relaxed look, the thrown back head and slightly parted lips made his hands slow, soften and hold rather than push and prod. Joan’s head rose just a bit to see why he had stopped and he jumped back into action.

“You are also not to interpret this in any other manner except what is, an act of mercy, a medicinal foot massage,” he continued probing the muscles of her right foot while the left impatiently awaited its turn. His lecturing continued but Joan stopped listening.

Sherlock took hold of her left foot and she squirmed just a little. “Hmm .. More sensitivity on the left …” He noted and proceeded with a little more care.

Her eyes closed again, she couldn’t help but softly moan once more at the easing of her pain, the release of tension, the pleasurable relaxation his hands were producing not just at her feet but throughout her being.

Sherlock eyes strayed once more to her, eyes drawn to the play of pain and pleasure across her face ….. He forced himself to look away, and focused on applying a more gentle attention to her ankles, rotating them, caressing almost.

He finished and held her feet on his lap, lightly rubbing in a distracted way. Quiet followed, except for the soft breath of each; the warmth of the moment spread through both of them. She appeared to be falling asleep.

“Thank you.” The words floated towards him. Her eyes opened and once again they shared that look, the look that held promise and a longing that would most likely never be fulfilled.

He gave her feet a squeeze. “Please, for my sake, Watson, don’t wear those boots again,” he pleaded.

“For you, I won’t.” Her words were gentle and sincere.

They sat a little longer enjoying the moment, his hand still stroking her feet lightly until awareness of a line about to be crossed rose between them.

Realizing he needed to move away from her before he did something they both would regret, he lifted her feet from his lap and quickly stood.

“I’ll start tea,” he called out over his shoulder as he quickly left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

In the cool quiet of the predawn hours, the metallic scraping of the deadbolt reverberated harshly. Entering the brownstone, Joan tried to be as quiet as possible on the off chance her partner was actually sleeping. She carefully opened and shut one door and then the other, picking up her luggage rather than letting the wheels clatter over the hardwood floors.

Her case, the case that sent her off to Saratoga, had been solved sooner than expected and she got to come home early. She was relieved. Joan missed her home and she missed him. Seven days apart, even though they’d exchanged a few texts, was too long. She moved to take off her coat and felt hands on her shoulders assisting her.

“You’re home early,” Sherlock’s voice sounded cool, almost detached.

Joan looked over her shoulder quickly, “I didn’t walk in on any, uh .. any …” She was never quite sure what to label his sexual liaisons.

“No.” He took her coat and hung it up. Face to face, they took each other in. Sherlock broke eye contact first, staring away as he spoke, “Have you eaten? Would you like something?” He squinted as his eyes returned to search her face.

“No. I’m okay.” They stood in awkward silence. She didn’t understand what was going on. She had not expected a hug from him, but surely a little more warm of a welcome was in order.

“Alright,” he went to move away.

“Wait.” Her hand didn’t quite touch him but it stopped him. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock had an odd look about him … sad, confused, defeated. She really couldn’t decipher what she saw.

Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, he cast his eyes sideways and sighed, deciding to confess rather than run, “I missed you.” His voice was barely audible.

“I missed you too … very much.” Her hand made contact with his arm.

“Did you?” He seemed surprised, the darkness of his countenance lifting a degree.

“Of course I did, it’s … ” she paused, not sure if she wanted to say it out loud. “It’s why I came home early.” The quiver of a nervous smile played on her lips.

Sherlock’s cold facade began to crumble. His body inclined closer to hers. He spoke as if in strictest confidence.

“I missed you Watson to the point of distraction….” He nodded absentmindedly to himself. “It was …” he looked up at her, and shook his head, saying nothing more. She waited for him to continue. “It was almost a physical need ….” His voice tapered off.

“Sherlock, why didn’t you just call me?” Joan’s hand moved lightly up his arm. He stood stock still.

“You were working. I felt very much a fool, thought it’d be presumptuous of me …. Actually, I thought you would call first, but you didn’t.” He gave her an insecure grimace that might have passed for a smile except for the look in his eyes. “And then when I found out you had called Detective Bell…”

“I needed him to pull something from the precinct records,” Joan found herself sounding defensive.

Sherlock nodded vaguely, “I’m afraid I was less than courteous to Marcus.”

“What did you say?”

“I may have said something to the effect of thanking him for providing you with his small …. help. I may have phrased it a bit more crudely though.” His eyes cut to her face and caught the fleeting signs of concern. “He accepted my apology once we both calmed down.”

“Sherlock.” Her tone held rebuke and understanding. If he was being honest, so would she, “I almost called several times, wanted just to … to hear your voice … But I stopped myself. We’ve had several instances of rather close behavior lately and I thought I was perhaps being too clingy. I thought, you know, you’d take the opportunity of me not being in the way to have your, uhm, sleepovers.” Joan felt foolish, but continued. “So I didn’t call. Didn’t want to bother you.”

His hand was holding hers. They shared a long moment of understanding.

“We are a sorry pair, aren’t we?” He tugged her gently towards him and she was soon wrapped in his embrace.

“What are we going to do…” Her question was rhetorical but he answered.

“Well, for starters,” he dropped his chin to the top of her head, “we are taking no more cases that separate us for more than a few days. Agreed?” He squeezed her.

“Agreed.” She wrapped her arms a little tighter around him. They swayed as they stood, finding their bearings.

From atop her purse, her phone rang. Sherlock reached over and picked it up, answering it as he did. “Hello Mary, it’s Sherlock.” Joan looked up. “Yes, yes, fine. She just got here. Hold on I’ll give her the phone.” He looked down at a smiling Joan whose arms were still holding him, he held the phone away from them and bending his head, gave her a long, slow kiss that left both of them breathless.

He pulled himself away from her and handed over the phone. “It’s your mum,” he said for Mary’s benefit more than Joan’s. Sherlock quickly walked away.

Joan collected herself, caught her breath and put on her dutiful daughter voice, “Hi mom. Just got in, I was about to call you. Flight was fine … Uh huh … Uh huh …”


End file.
